


The Adventures of Molly Hooper and the Men in Lingerie

by KiliMouse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Dominatrix, F/M, Female Character In Command, Light Bondage, Mutual Masturbation, Spanking, cross dressing, men in lingerie, molly hooper is an ex-domme
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 20:20:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiliMouse/pseuds/KiliMouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dejected by the fact Jim only wants her to get to Sherlock, Molly Hooper joins a dating site..with a difference. This dating site is for men who like to wear women's underwear, and the ladies who like to watch. Based on a very real site I came across, this will be a multi-chapter fic in which Molly Hooper gets all the male cast of Sherlock into her knickers, quite literally, and proceeds to domme the hell out of them.</p><p>Extract: It’s been about half an hour, and although they sit in silence, it is rather more companionable than awkward. The clock in the corner ticks softly, as if attempting to lull them to sleep. It’s all very domesticated, and Molly feels a sense of hysterical surrealism bubbling up inside her. It makes her hiccup into her tea, which splashes onto her nose. “So much for seductive, Molly,” she thinks, mopping at the mess with a tissue.<br/>Greg looks at her in silence.<br/>“Do you want to wear my knickers?” Molly blurts.<br/>Greg chokes, and coffee spurts out of his nose.<br/>“I thought you’d never ask,” he says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventures of Molly Hooper and the Men in Lingerie

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a real site but not intended to promote it, I own nothing and am not making any money from this little jaunt into fantasy land.

Molly Hooper walks into a bar.  


It sounds like the start of a joke, a bad joke, a joke that no one laughs at but just smiles awkwardly and tries to find someone else to talk to, thinks Molly, rubbing one foot against the other ankle, and scanning the room. She doesn’t really do bars. She’s only here on the off-chance that Hannah was still meeting her- her phone’s broken, so she hasn’t been able to check if they were still meeting after work, and Hannah works in an office half an hour across London- half an hour on the Tube, which is the way Molly travels. Taxis are for rich people, she thinks wryly, and people like Sherlock who have the natural born command of taxis and can make them stop for you in any given situation. Molly lacks that. Molly lacks lots of things. Right now, Molly lacks Hannah.  


“You know what you should do?” says someone, and she turns round just in time to see the new chap from the I.T department looming into her vision, eyes wide and dark, above a mouth smiling a smile that doesn’t reach them.  


“Uh- no?” Where the hell is Hannah?  


“Let me buy you a drink,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like a lecherous come on, more a fact of life. Molly’s good at facts, so she nods.  


“Ok.”  


So she does, and one drink turns into the start of a cute little series of dates. Jim from I.T proves to be intelligent, charming, and gentle, but his eyes stay focused on something else all the time, and when Sherlock does that thing where he deduces the merry hell out of everyone in sight, Molly realises that the something else Jim wants is the handsome detective- and why not, she thinks sadly, when Sherlock’s like a shooting star and she’s a piece of floating space debris.  


“Hey, it’s ok, London’s a big place,” Hannah says brightly, as they sit in Molly’s flat and crack open their fifth bottle of WKD.  


“Yes, and most of London seems to have massive boners for Sherlock,” Molly says gloomily, “regardless of gender, sexuality and kink- I bet you even the G-string-wearing shemales in that club you tried to make me go to would go for Sherlock!”  


She heaves a deep sigh, and Hannah giggles and reaches for the iPad in her bag. Usually, Molly sees her doing work-related things on it, sending emails and checking stock lists, but today she taps on the Chrome app, opens up a private browsing window, and types something briskly into the screen. Molly leans over, but Hannah hides it from her view, cackling.  


“What are you up to?”  


“Well, I had a day off last week, I wasn’t doing much, the weather was atrocious and you were working. So I ended up on the weird part of the internet…”  


“Oh, Han, you didn’t? I don’t want to know!”  


“Yes you do. So I found this website...”  


“That sentence cannot possibly end well.”  


“Well, have a look, see for yourself,” Hannah said, handing her the iPad. Molly’s eyes and mouth widen simultaneously.  


“You have got to be joking,” she says. “Youcanwearmyknickers.com? Hannah, what in the name of Mycroft Holmes led you to a site like this? In fact, don’t answer that.” She’s only met Mycroft once, when he’d swanned into the lab in search of his errant younger brother. Molly quite fancied him, actually.  


“Oh, don’t pretend you’re not interested,” grins Hannah. “You always did have a deeply hidden wild side, you’ve just buried it under a tonne of dead bodies and your infatuation with that detective.”  


“That’s not true!”  


“You were far more fun at school, Molly Hooper. What happened to you?”  


Molly’s mouth forms an indignant O, then subsides into a narrow, tightly pursed line.  


“Fine,” she says, doggedly, “where do I sign up?”

****

The day passes slowly for Molly; people seem to be resolutely staying alive, and Sherlock has only been in once to growl at the drawers full of the natural causes deceased and mutter dispassionately about how criminals aren’t what they used to be. She has an extended lunch break, and checks her emails on her phone.  


“Notification from youcanwearmyknickers.com”  


Well, shit. Someone actually replied to that?  


His name is Reg, which sounds far too old fashioned for a man who willingly humiliates himself in ladies’ underwear, but the description in his profile sounds charming enough and the photo, while shadowy, shows tanned skin and plenty of hair on his head. He lives in London, and vaguely lists his age as “happily in between the forties and fifties” which probably means 63. He’s sent her a very lovely email- if by “lovely”, you mean descriptive enough to make her wriggle in her suddenly-wet knickers. A long forgotten sense of delicious naughtiness shimmered through her thighs, pooling in the wet heat between them, and she is suddenly sixteen again and giggling breathlessly in the attic of an upmarket Central London house as a tousle haired Etonian boy sprawls beneath her, hands tied above him at the headboard, pupils blown wide and cock throbbing in the pair of her black knickers he’d begged her to let him try. It had been a wonderful sexual awakening, and all had been marvellous until he, a couple of years her senior, went to Cambridge and she didn’t see him again. Her next few boyfriends weren’t nearly kinky enough, and she got a reputation as something of a whore, which made her clam up and now she never expresses a liking for anything ever, so scared is she of being misinterpreted or judged. Sherlock hasn’t worked out why yet, because if he had he sure as hell would have blurted it out.  


Molly types a reply quickly and then pockets her phone, fanning her rosy cheeks with a tissue in an attempt to cool their flaming arousal. This doesn’t work, so she slips into the toilets and, fervently hoping nobody else walks in, slips her hand down into the waistband of her trousers, rubbing gently through her thin cotton knickers. Her head falls back, and in her mind’s eye it’s not her hand but that of Sherlock- she feels like it ought to be this Reg character, seeing as how he got her into this mess, but his photo is too shadowy to put a face to the dirty talk, plus Sherlock has a far sexier name to gasp out. Not that, she reminds herself, she’ll be doing any gasping- other people use this bathroom too. She hooks one finger into her knickers and drags the soft material down, breath hitching, to allow her better access, skin on skin, and then there’s no stopping her, her index finger slips into the usual routine, speeding up and frantically sliding along her wet folds. She emits one small squeak and then cringes, because that noise had not been meant to slip out, and then the waves of the first orgasm, followed by smaller ripples of second and third climaxes, signal the end of her lunch break.  


She hears back from Reg within the hour. They agree to meet, and Molly knows there is no turning back.

**** 

It might not be such a good idea, meeting a man at your house, who you have only emailed once and with whom you have nothing more in common than a desire to see him in your underwear. Molly’s past the point of caring though. She’s bought in far fancier food than she would normally consume and can afford, and is sitting at the table in her flat determinedly trying not to chew her nails, which are painted a vibrant red to match her lipstick. When the doorbell rings, she springs up far too suddenly and bumps her knee on the table. She can tell a bruise is forming by the time she makes it to the hallway and unlatches the door.  


“Hello,” she says before the visitor is fully revealed, “I’m Molly.”  


“I’m Re-” begins the visitor, but their eyes meet and their jaws fall.  
“Greg Lestrade?” Molly quavers, her face aflame. He looks almost more embarrassed than she does, and looks at her feet rather than her face. “I guess you didn’t want to be outed in the press, then? Is that why you’re calling yourself Reg?”  


Greg raises his head, the smallest of smiles playing around his lips.  


“So can I come in?” he asks.

**** 

Molly Hooper sits on the sofa, the farthest end away from Greg Lestrade, and sips her tea, while he blows gently on his coffee and watches her cat as it shreds an old pair of socks beneath the bookcase. It’s been about half an hour, and although they sit in silence, it is rather more companionable than awkward. The clock in the corner ticks softly, as if attempting to lull them to sleep. It’s all very domesticated, and Molly feels a sense of hysterical surrealism bubbling up inside her. It makes her hiccup into her tea, which splashes onto her nose. “So much for seductive, Molly,” she thinks, mopping at the mess with a tissue.  


Greg looks at her in silence.  


“Do you want to wear my knickers?” Molly blurts.  


Greg chokes, and coffee spurts out of his nose.  


“I thought you’d never ask,” he says.  


Molly leads the way up the staircase to her small bedroom; small, but tidy, although it was a rushed job in an attempt to make her look more like a well-groomed sexual goddess, which involved the removal of all her stuffed toys (they were currently shoved unceremoniously into the bathroom cupboard) and the changing of her bedclothes, since the cat had rolled all over them and made them hairy. Greg makes an approving noise, but neither of them are quite sure what it is he approves of.  


“So…” Molly says, hovering by the window. She tugs awkwardly at the blinds; the young couple in the adjacent house can see right into her bedroom from their bathroom, and Greg getting in her knickers (quite literally) is not the kind of thing she’s comfortable with them seeing. “We should probably set some ground rules.”  


“You mean safewords?”  


“Well, fuck,” says Molly.  


Greg looks confused, and Molly feels bad.  


“I thought we were just… I wasn’t planning on going full on domme,” she clarifies. “I mean, I’d love to, but the heel of my stilettoes is broken and I’ve just had to send my riding crop off to be mended too.” She’s gratified to see Greg’s eyes have become immediately blown wide and dark with sudden lust, and she deliberately doesn’t mention that she hasn’t used the crop on a person in years, it was just a horse riding mishap that cause it to break. “But we can… we can definitely do something a little more out there if you want.” There’s always that snazzy leather belt in the wardrobe. It doesn’t go with many of her clothes, but would leave some pretty marks on Greg’s willing skin…  
They decide on standardised safewords, red for stop and yellow for take a breather, and Molly is pleased as punch when it turns out Greg had the foresight to bring handcuffs with him, although she tentatively asks him on three separate occasions if they’re as safe as actual sex-shop cuffs. He assures her he used them plenty of times before his wife walked out, and considering he’s the one who has to wear the things, that’s good enough for Molly.  


There is a pause once the formalities are discussed, and Greg looks longingly at the hint of pink and white satin poking invitingly out of Molly’s underwear drawer; Molly notices, and a wicked little smile tries itself out on her scarlet hued lips, and for a moment, Greg the weatherbeaten silver fox is replaced in her mind’s eye with her tall blonde Etonian; the needy glint in the eyes is definitely the same. She runs a finger along the edge of the drawer, lifts the skimpy material and dangles it. Greg practically salivates.  
“Do you… want it?” she says, softly.  


“Please, mistress,” comes the husky reply.  


“How badly?”  


“V-very badly.”  


“On your knees. Beg.”  


Greg drops to his knees like a man half his age, doesn’t even wince, and a look of bliss washes over his face as he pleads, utters her name like a prayer, wheedles and begs in that rough, husky tone of his. Molly lets the satin of the pink and white knickers fall from her fingers and shimmer into a soft pool by Greg’s knees. His eyes follow their descent, and he swallows. Molly takes pity, nudges his chin with her knee.  


“Look at me.”  


Greg raises his head- he has to, really, because the pressure beneath his chin is only getting stronger. Molly Hooper is forceful, she’s hurting him, and he loves it, absolutely loves it.  


“Good boy,” she purrs, and her hands are on the buttons of his shirt. Arousal makes her bold, and there is only the tiniest hint of shaking in those fingers, which Greg is far too gone to pick up on anyway. He leans into her touch and inhales, and she silently thanks whatever deity she most recently believed in that she only put a little bit of perfume on; she’d rather Greg didn’t pass out from sniffing her.  


As his shirt slips easily down his shoulders- nice shoulders, strong and broad and ridiculously tanned. Where on Earth did a gritty London D.I get a tan like that?- she allows herself an appreciative smile, although she wonders how her bra is going to do up round those muscles. Maybe they’ll just stick with the knickers for starters, and if he decides he wants seconds, he can bring his own.  


“Go on then, seeing as how you’ve been so good,” she whispers, hooking her finger through the belt loop of his trousers, which he practically falls over himself in order to shed. He’s already half hard in his smart black boxers, and the wet patch on the front is barely noticeable on the dark material, but Molly knows it’s there when she reaches down to cup him softly, teasingly, then squeezes just the right side of painfully. Greg gulps, and she chuckles, and then he emits a long-held-back moan. It’s only small, but it opens the floodgates, and the next thing either of them know, Greg Lestrade is on his back on Molly Hooper’s bed, legs splayed, with the now damp softness of pink and white satin knickers barely keeping his cock in check, and what’s more, Molly’s got his hands tied up to the bed post with a pair of her tights. (Yes, he brought handcuffs, but this is the first time she’s done this in ages, and she’s not about to call out his colleagues to rescue their boss from a sex game gone wrong, like she saw on the news last week.) He could easily break away if he wanted to, but he doesn’t; he’s holding himself as still as he can and craning his neck to get as good a view of his own erection straining through the satin as he can. His chest is heaving with the effort of it all, and Molly suddenly has a brilliant idea.  


“Still!” she orders, and hops off the bed to drag the full length mirror from the other side of the room to the foot of the bed. By propping him up slightly more, she allows Greg the perfect view of himself in all his debauched abandon, and he sucks in a desperate breath at the sight.  


“Oh…”  


“Like that, do you? You filthy boy,” she says, amused, and runs a hand lightly along his inner thigh, which twitches involuntarily.  


“Please…”  


“Please what, you little slut?”  


“Please, Mistress… I need to come.”  


“You’ll get what you’re given and you’ll like it,” comes the sharp retort, but he begs some more, losing words in favour of needy noises, and the only things that remain coherent are “please” and “Mistress”, which is all well and good but not especially expressive, and Molly Hooper likes her men articulate. She slides a hand into the satin and gently tugs on his cock, feeling the pre-come ooze across her fingers from the moment she makes contact. He gets louder, but no more eloquent. When he emits a stray “f-f-fuckkk”, however, she slaps him across the cheek with a face of mock horror.  


“Watch your language, you little whore,” she reprimands. “I was going to be nice to you and let you get off, but you’ve just earnt yourself ten slaps for that little misdemeanour.” She undoes his wrists in one easy twist, and nudges his shoulder briskly. “On your front,” she orders, and sees the longing in his eyes as he glances at the mirror reflecting the scene back at him. “No, you don’t get to watch. You had that privilege and now it’s been revoked, because you’re just not good enough.” She sounds genuinely disappointed in him. Molly Hooper didn’t take Drama O-level for nothing.  


“Please…sorry…” He’s whimpering, and she’s unmoved. She snaps the fancy belt across the back of her hand just to see the way he twitches at the whooshing sound, and smiles when she notices he’s trying to rub himself against her duvet, humping like a dumb animal.  


“Oh, stop that,” she says, “or I’ll make it twenty… but maybe you’d like that?” She’s got other ideas, though, so it wouldn’t necessarily be a bad idea if he did like it a little bit too much.  


The first strike of the belt lands just to the left of his hole, and is far softer than he’s expecting, as she can tell from the way his shoulders loosen in relief. Not for long, though, as the second and third are harder, with no pattern to the way they land, and what’s more, she’s making him count them. His breath hitches on the seventh and he humps just a bit too hard to go unnoticed, so she tuts at him and starts again, painting bright pink stripes across his backside with all the solemnity of a disapproving Victorian nanny. By the time he bawls out the word “te-eee-een, Mistress!” he’s become teary, and his knickers are almost as soaking wet as his eyelashes.  


Molly relents, and lets him up. He eases himself onto his back, and she can’t imagine how sore he must be, bare burning skin against the duvet, although it’s the softest one she owns. His face is flushed with half humiliation and half ecstasy, and he hasn’t even climaxed yet.  


“I’m proud of you,” she murmurs into his ear, tracing the belt along his inner thigh, over the bulge between his legs, and edges the satin down so that his red, weeping cock pokes its sore-looking head over the fabric. “I want you to get yourself off. I’m not going to touch you, you’re going to do it all yourself, like the good boy I know you can be. Go.”  


He blinks up at her adoringly, almost not sure if she’s tricking him and is about to lay into him with that belt again, but reaches one hand down, tentatively, to stroke his cock slowly, cautiously. She stays motionless, occasionally blinks as the only indication she’s still very much alive and watching, and his hand speeds up, the other one reaching behind himself to spread pre-come across his hole and dip inside. Eventually, he notices her breath speeding up, and she shifts ever so slightly before sinking down on the bed next to him and sliding her own hand into the waistband of matching white and pink satin underwear.  


They make a sinful looking pair, reflecting uncompromisingly back at themselves in the full length mirror at the foot of the bed. Molly closes her eyes as she feels her orgasm building, but opens them just in time to watch herself, coincidentally in perfect sync with the D.I, slip over the edge and into absolute bliss, the kind that makes her head loll and her entire body thrum with the aftermath. Greg, too, seems similarly affected, and it’s quite some time before he dares to speak.  


“That was incredible,” he says, huskily. “I’m afraid I’ve thoroughly ruined these knickers, though.” He sounds apologetic, but his eyes are bright with merriment. Molly chuckles a panting chuckle.  


“’S fine,” she says. “I haven’t had that much fun in ages.”  


Greg looks at her appraisingly, taking in her wild, tousled hair and flushed pink cheeks. She hardly looks like the timid mortician he’s got used to not taking any notice of. “Good lord, Molly Hooper, there’s a lot none of us know about you, isn’t there?”  


“I bloody well hope so,” she pants out, laughing. “I’d never hear the end of it if Sherlock started deducing things like this!”

*** 

That was, however, only the start of the extraordinary adventure of Molly Hooper and the men in lingerie.


End file.
